Turn, turn, turn
by Chanlin Marr
Summary: A short tale of Toreador perspective


Turn, turn, turn  
  
By  
  
Chanlin Marr  
  
  
  
Darkness always looks its blackest, when viewed with a critical eye.  
  
Eugene pulled the silver BMW, polished mirror-bright, in front of his establishment. The valet, without comment, took the car to park it in the back lot. Eugene was dressed casually, or what passed for casual on these nights, and at these places: a loose, white ruffled shirt, black slacks and black leather shoes. Compared to most here, he probably looked rather ordinary. But, that was the whole idea. He absently pulled his shoulder- length brown hair into a ponytail as he looked through the windows of the place.  
  
The club was full tonight, as was its function.  
  
He entered, slowly, nodding to the doorman, who let him pass without question. The noise that passed for music was what hit him first. Pounding rhythms, lacking melody, filled his ears and vibrated his bones. It was this sonic wind that explained the wild flailing and whirling of those in attendance. The booze helped a little, as well.  
  
He looked around the place itself: the colorful wall fixtures, the intentionally bubble-gummed lighting, and the wall-length bar whose wares came in bottles that themselves would rival a rainbow for assorted hues.  
  
"The place was built to be used," Eugene thought, much in the same way the people who populated the place were 'made' to be used. Eugene glanced around at the collective cattle.  
  
The young were there, in their tight outfits and ridiculous hairstyles and makeup, always trying to prove something to somebody.  
  
"What they don't seem to understand," Eugene mused silently, "is that the people they are trying to prove themselves to are themselves unproved. It's as if one grain of sand were attempting to stir the Sahara. How interesting."  
  
The old were there as well, trying to recapture that youth of theirs they wasted in 'more conservative' times. Men, dancing and hanging off of girls that could be their daughters; women hanging onto men that could be their sons. And all of them trying to pretend it was 'they' who were being pursued. All of it was a mask they wore, the young and old. Masks they all projected to hide the ugliness they felt inside.  
  
"I'm much too jaded," he thought. "Time and observation have that effect, though, I suppose."  
  
He really hated what this club had become. At its outset, those short decades ago, he'd hoped it would be a showcase of the evolving tastes and styles of the waning century; a dynamic time capsule of sorts, where pieces of the passing years could be kept and preserved to look upon later. And for a time, a very short time, it had been just that. He would save small changes to the place's décor from decade to decade, trying to make a hybrid of tastes and perspectives that could be viewed far into the future, and be appreciated for possessing the very best of what the ever-changing American culture had to offer.  
  
But now, it was a 20-something meat market, like all the rest. It had become a place for the lonely to flirt, and the insecure to show themselves off, just for the sake of showing off. Eugene had been forced to rearrange his vision, or else lose his masterpiece altogether. The nit-picky, flash- in-the-pan fads and styles of the modern nights did not allow for a business to thrive unless it was willing to alter itself at a moments notice. Eugene's grand plan of an establishment, an institution, that would alter itself through slow osmosis of elegant culture, was now reduced to a "new-look-a-week" trend spot for the adolescent-minded kine of today.  
  
Eugene sighed. He had failed. He had allowed the mortal's economies and whinings to dictate the course of his dream. He looked around at them all: the ravers, the club-kids, the club fossils; all sources of his artistic downfall. He was not angry. No, not Eugene. Simply...deeply disappointed.  
  
Quietly, he walked towards the metal staircase on the far right wall. Some of the kine were there, hanging off the railing to wave at others and show off their cleavage. Others just wanted to get closer to the DJ who was positioned on the platform at the top of the first flight.  
  
Eugene turned to the entrance of the second flight, which was blocked by a locked gate. He unlocked it with his master key, and made his way to the small office at the top. He paused, taking one more look at the crowd below, and sucked in what he could of what this place had been, and what it could have been. He thought for a moment, and shrugged.  
  
As he entered his office, knowing which buttons he had to push to begin the process of "renewal", he thought about what he might do with the insurance money.  
  
"Maybe I'll try a restaurant," he thought. 


End file.
